


Colourful|Monochrome|Pink

by FoiblePNoteworthy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: (but don't you want to see jet react to someone losing their soulmarks to the fire nation?), (thats gold right there), Angst, Child Abuse, Gen, PRobably gonna be, Platonic Soulmates, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Mutilation, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Theater nerd!Zuko, Vignette, Watch me push my bard Zuko agenda again, Whump, and, heres me back on my bullshit, i probabky need to warn for things um, if you hate one its probably not as bad as you think, in later chapters that i havent written yet, ish, lots of talking about scars, okay so in this au pople have like a lot of soulmates, ozai is being awful, sort of a, style of thing, thats literally his job but still, thats right its another, the tagged relationships are like the point of this fic but also not, there scenes with baby zuko so yeah its like on screen, zuko is a smol baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoiblePNoteworthy/pseuds/FoiblePNoteworthy
Summary: Ozai’s son was barely a minute old, and he was already a disappointment.He had treasonous soulmarks.- an au where soulmarks are more like YouTube recommended and not this perfect gospel truth. also you get like a bunch of them
Relationships: Freedom Fighters & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Jet & Zuko (Avatar), Lu Ten & Zuko, The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar), Zuko & OCs
Comments: 85
Kudos: 608





	1. I Gave Birth to a Fire

**Author's Note:**

> title loosely inspired by lyrics from Colour Wheel by Biffy Clyro

Ozai’s son was barely a minute old, and he was already a disappointment. After so many months of his wife being irritating and bloated, he’d hoped he’d actually get something out of it. It had all been a waste of time.

His son had treasonous soulmarks. From his hip to his ribs marched an air nomad arrow, a water tribe boomerang and necklace, a badgermole, a kyoshi fan.

These were on top of his far too numerous marks – the weaponry on his left upper arm, pointing unerringly east no matter which way he turned the boy; the damaged musical instruments laid out in a neat row inside his right forearm; the sparkling teapot on the back of his left hand and the crude bird on the right. There were more around his right ankle and on his left cheek and temple and hiding on the fleshy part of his thumb and it just went on and on.

(Ozai had three marks, each separate from the other – a dragon on his back, curled up for a nap, for his brother; a blue flame on his right hand, simmering, for someone he hadn’t yet met; the gold of the royal hairpiece, hidden beneath his topknot, for his father. Or, he liked to think, for himself.)

How weak the child must be, to need so many people around him.

He held the squirming lump up at eye level, wondering how long he had to listen to it squall before he could pitch it out of the window. It would be safest to check in with Father before finishing it off.

Maybe his wife would cry more quietly if it didn’t seem like it was his fault. She would likely wail from dawn ‘til dusk otherwise. She could always find the most passive ways to annoy him.

It wasn’t long before Father arrived to inspect his second grandson.

“His marks are treasonous,” Ozai said, before Father could. The last thing he wanted was for Father to think he cared about it. “And he has far too many of them, besides.”

Father hmm-ed. “A shame. I spoke to the healer – she says it will be some time before your wife will be able to try again. You’ve wasted a lot of time.”

Ozai sucked in a breath. It wasn’t his fault – it wasn’t like he’d _wanted_ to marry Ursa – but that didn’t matter to his father. “I’m sorry, Father.”

Father took the infant from his hands and stepped towards the small airing window. Behind him, he heard Ursa struggle up out of bed, speaking in a low pleading tone. Father ignored her. “Let’s hope your second try will go a little better, hm?”

“Of course, Father. I-”

He was interrupted by clattering footsteps down the hall, before his useless brother broke into the room.

***

_Iroh had been born with an egg on his right hand, and a blank sketchbook on his right. He hadn’t been able to figure out either until little Lu Ten got into his writing ink at two years old, and the sketchbook became splattered with red._

_In hindsight, the teapot on the back of Lu Ten’s hand really should have given it away._

_As the years went by, the sketchbook disappeared, leaving just the drawings behind. Lu Ten loved to draw birds and lizards of any kind, wondering what kind of animal was in the egg they shared. When they walked together, they often held hands, Iroh clutching at the teapot and Lu Ten at his own drawings. Sometimes they would swap sides, both holding the egg of their shared soulmate, wondering how long it would be until it hatched._

_When Lu Ten was twelve, he came barrelling into Iroh’s room in the middle of the night, pointing excitedly to the crack in the egg. Their soulmate was coming._

***

Iroh clenched his tea cup just a little tighter, and resisted the urge to pace.

He didn’t need to pace. There was nothing to worry about. Ursa was strong, she would survive labour.

He took a deep breath and focused on heating his tea. In and out, the candles in the room followed his breathing. He was fine. Everything would be fine.

His door slammed open, Lu Ten falling almost flat in his haste.

“Father!” Lu Ten rushed forwards, almost punching his father in the face in his haste to show him his hand.

His hand, which did not contain an egg.

Iroh pulled back his long sleeve, and watched the newly hatched turtleduck screw up its little eyes, mouth open in a scream of its irritation. The child was here.

_The child was here._

Ursa.

Iroh took a hold of Lu Ten’s sleeve, dragging him out the door with him. Together, they rushed down the corridor as fast as they could.

On the back of his wrist, flashing into vision as he pumped his arms, the turtleduck opened its little beak in a yawn.

Iroh burst into the delivery room, propriety having flown from his thoughts the second he realised.

He smiled to see his father holding his little niece or nephew, the child cooing at him from within their little bundle, arms stretching out in a request to be held. Iroh took the child without his father’s permission, studying the little teapot on the back of their hand as the child blinked and yawned at him. Next to him, Lu Ten went up on his tip-toes to get a closer look at his cousin. 

“ _Prince_ _Iroh,”_ his Father glowered audibly, his displeasure filling the room like a pungent smoke.

Iroh lowered his head as low as he could while holding the child. “My apologies for the impropriety, Father. I had only wished to-”

“The baby’s our soulmate!” Lu Ten chirped, ignorantly unflinching in the face of the Firelord. He strode over to his grandfather, holding out the back of his hand proudly.

Father’s expression only worsened. Outside, the sun disappeared behind a cloud. “He is a… turtleduck.”

“Kind, beloved,” Iroh listed quickly, holding the child in closer, “Fiercely protective of their families and their own. Loyal.”

Father’s mouth puckered. Iroh knew he was stretching the facts, but what did it matter if his nephew was soft at heart? Frankly, they could use a little more of that in their family.

Father held out his hands for the child, and Iroh gently lifted him from his chest. The child dangled from Father’s thin fingers; long nails were hidden in his deep blankets.

“ _Unfortunately,”_ The Firelord drawled, his wrinkled nose revealing his distaste, holding the child at eye level, “The child has treasonous marks.”

The child in question gurgled, reaching for his grandfather’s nose.

“It cannot be trusted.”

The baby’s eyes slid closed, tired and warm and comfortable in his grandfather’s hold.

Firelord Azulon kept his gaze fixed on the infant, face crevassed by his scowl. “It needs to be _disposed of_.”

He showed no upset in his expression or voice or posture.

Iroh’s mouth went dry. Lu Ten, by his side as always, looked up at him in confusion. “What does that mean, dad?”

Iroh didn’t think he’d be able to say it, even if he did have breath in his lungs. The candles in the room dimmed to a smoulder, casting the room in near-dark.

“…Go outside, Lu Ten.”

“Da-”

_“Now!”_

His son scurried from the room, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

(He would have to apologise for raising his voice later. But that was for later.)

Father was walking towards the window. “You will tell your son,” he said, his back to his Iroh (the child was out of his sightline and _it was driving him insane_ ). “That there was a complication. It happens a lot with newborns.”

“Father,” Iroh took a step forwards, desperate to take the child from him, terrified to overstep his bounds and unleash his Father’s hair-trigger fury on the child. “There has to be another solution to this. The child has marks for myself and Lu Ten, he has fire on his brow-” he had so many marks, surely the sign of a great man, to touch the hearts of so many and be touched in return- “Perhaps… perhaps these ‘treasonous marks’ are for his mortal enemies, not for his allies. Maybe they are for people who fight the people they represent.”

His Father halted in his walk to the window, but did not turn back to face him.

“Even if they do represent friends,” he choked out the words, painfully aware that they were necessary, “Even if these people might be allies of his, the future is not set in stone. These marks are a guideline, nothing more. I can see that I have a good chance at getting him to listen to me, I'm sure I can keep him on the right path.”

He couldn’t see his Father’s expression, but judging by how Ozai’s had soured – _why was his brother like this?_ – Father was at least thinking about what he had to say.

“These people might be important to him in some aspect,” Iroh said. A weight shifted from his chest and he paused to breathe. (Was the room dark because of the candles, he wondered, or because the world had been going black at the edges?) “That does not make him treasonous,” he said.

His Father nodded once. “It would be a waste,” he conceded. “This situation can be remedied.”

Without another word, he lit his palm ablaze, and pressed it to the infant’s belly.

***

In the South Pole, Kya pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling her child begin to kick. And refuse to stop.

She sat down as she waited for their fit to pass.

***

Zuko asked his Mother about soulmarks again. He remembered everything she had ever said about them, he was _sure_ \- still, every time he asked he seemed to learn something new.

He’d asked her before about the branches on their faces, and she’d pointed to the trees above them.

 _See how they blossom_? She’d said. _The flowers on our faces are the same because we are under this tree._

Zuko had frowned. _That doesn’t seem like a useful mark._

She’d hm-ed instead of answering.

 _It doesn’t tell us anything we can use,_ He’d tried the second time, a few days later.

 _Well,_ She’d said, _We don’t need to identify each other. I already know this is you._ She’d traced the branches with a tickly finger. _But I will always know_ , she kissed his cheek, _if you’re sitting somewhere nice._

It was a very silly mark, he’d thought at first. It couldn’t help him find her, when they played hide-and-explode. It didn’t tell him if she was in danger, or how she was feeling. It didn’t tell him what she was up to. But he supposed it didn’t matter too much, he would always be able to ask her those things, and she would answer.

 _Why is my wrist singing?_ He asked her this time. The pink skin was glowing and talking, which was remarkably odd to him, because he didn’t have a mark there.

(Not anymore.)

It sounded like a folk song, but he didn’t recognise it. Mother didn’t either.

 _Here’s how to make it quiet,_ she told him, wrapping it tightly in ribbon until the pink skin was hidden and silent and dim. She didn’t tell him why it was singing, or why she wanted him to hide it. Maybe it was private?

He pulled off the ribbon again in his room, listening to the girl sing. She wasn’t nearly as good as the bards that appeared at the Solstice Festivals, but she was also better. There was a boy with her now, a little bit out of time, stumbling over the words.

As he listened to them, the words started to sound the same, until he knew they were coming before they were there. They got louder when he joined in with them. Maybe they could hear him too. He hoped so, because it made him happy to hear them and his chest was warm thinking that they were happy too.

He hoped they couldn’t hear it when Father caught him.

***

Piandao was very good and very nice. He taught him and Lu Ten how to sword fight in the mornings, and taught them all the fine arts he could think of for the rest of the day.

Before they’d come, Lu Ten had said that Piandao had taught him how to paint. Zuko loved to watch the careful brushstrokes on the back of his hand as his cousin worked, and always found the kindest cutest nicest drawings when he felt down.

Lu Ten was cheating - watching his turtleduck to guess his mood. Zuko had to be more vigilant to figure out when his cousin needed extra cuddles or a real turtleduck smuggled into his room. (It always worked though, so he couldn’t complain about it too much.)

Since they’d come to stay with Piandao, a few months past now, Zuko had become more than passable with a tsungi horn, and even better at luqin (which he far preferred because he could sing with it - and with _Them_ , when no one was there to hear).

Uncle insisted that it was important to be well-rounded, even if Father disagreed. This was why he had him learn swords as well as fire, like with the tsungi horn and the luqin, even though father would definitely disapprove.

(It didn’t matter too much that Father disapproved, he sometimes thought, because Father’s mark on him, the weak red flame over his left eyebrow, was small and weak and ‘ _unreciprocated’_ , while Uncle’s teapot was strong and big and matched by his turtleduck.)

Zuko liked learning the swords a lot. They fit in his hands in a way his flames never seemed to.

(It was irritating, he always thought, that his body wasn’t more accustomed to fire. He should get _something_ out of his wrinkly pink skin.)

***

Piandao caught his foot in a hold during their morning spar, holding it up to keep Zuko off balance.

Zuko gasped at the bright light that appeared under his grip. Piandao let go of him immediately, eyed wide in shock, and Zuko took advantage of the situation to knock him off his feet with a hard kick to the shin.

Piandao gave him one of those little proud looks he thought he couldn’t see, then grabbed his ankle again, pulling him down to the ground with him.

Under Piandao’s hand was a calligraphy brush, the Kanji for ‘surprise’ written next to it in precise strokes. Under the calligraphy brush was the familiar pink skin that dotted every limb.

Piandao said nothing, but pulled up the robes covering his ankle to reveal a theatre mask. ‘ _The Blue Spirit_ ,’ he thought it was, from one of Mom’s favourite plays. Though it was meant to be scowling, instead of looking confused.

The marks were small, no wider than a coin. They had potential to be important to the other, but it was not a bond for life. Zuko didn’t doubt that he would remember Piandao’s lessons every time he lifted his swords, couldn’t imaging going through his katas without hearing his voice, but he didn’t feel that he would come back after he was done learning.

His mentor nodded to him, stood, then offered him a hand up.

Neither of them ever spoke of their shared marks, nor that fact that Zuko had lost his to begin with.

***

Father found his swords. He found his Luqin and his tsungi horn and the sheet music he’d filled with his ideas. Father found his marks glowing and singing, uncovered by ribbons or shame.

Uncle had told him that when he was born, he’d been kept separate from his mother as his marks were removed, one section at a time, over the course of several careful months. Babies are very fragile, Uncle had said, and they didn’t want him to succumb to infection.

Zuko, now ten years old, was far less fragile, and thus was not afforded the same care the second time around.

***

_They are a weakness._

Zuko curled up in his cell, thinking of his Father’s words over and over. He’d be allowed out, they said, when he believed them.

His wrist was raw under the cuffs, drip drip dripping something gross on the floor beneath him. His shoulder ached from the refreshed burn, and he wondered what was meant to be under the pink that his Father was so desperate to destroy.

_They are a weakness. You don’t need them._

His swords had been melted in a forge, over the course of several hours. Father made him watch them while the heat stung the wetness on his arms. The smith fires were identical in appearance and function to Piandao’s. They didn’t feel the same.

His sheet music on careful charts and lyric journals in painstaking calligraphy and colourful concepts scrawled down on scraps of parchment were kindling shoved into the body of his Luqin. The little carvings in the body blackened first, and were almost beautiful in their destruction.

(He held onto that thought as he watched the pink spreading.)

_They are a weakness. They will hurt you._

His tsungi horn broke several tiles on the way down and ruined his mother’s flowerbeds when it finally landed. Falling from the tallest tower in the palace would do that. The metal needed constant care to ensure it did not rust. By now it had been outside for… weeks, maybe.

Maybe it was only a few days, but he felt too hungry for that.

His ankle was pink and damp and hot and empty. He wondered what Piandao’s mask looked like. If he knew that they didn’t match anymore. If he cared.

_They are a weakness. If you ever find them, you must kill them._

His wrist glowed in the darkness as they sang. He held it as close to him as he dared, and listened.

***

Mid brushstroke, the flower on the back of his hand was scored through by a jostled wrist. Zuko spotted the splattered red ink that was not red ink just before it faded to grey.

He screamed.

***

It hurt. It hurt in his chest and it hurt in his hand and it hurt in his eyes when he ran out of tears.

It hurt in the tin teapot on the back of his hand that never steamed.

It hurt in the splatters of grey that would not wash off.

_(They would wash off if they were pink.)_

It hurt in his chest when he couldn’t breathe and he missed the sun and his hands would not spark for him.

It hurt when they sang and his father would hear and it hurt when they stopped and wouldn’t it just be easier if they never started again?

He tore a strip from his tunic and wrapped his wrist. They were silent. They were wrapped in pink and they _were_ pink and they were silent.

They were a weakness. He didn’t need them. They would hurt him.

He would never find them, because they were pink.

It was for the best that they were pink. He didn’t want them.

He was let out of his cell.


	2. Somebody Help Me Sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey theres gonna be warnings in the bottom notes if you need to read warnings

Wrapped around Zuko’s right calf was a long pink strip, about an inch wide. It tugged sometimes when it was cold and he forgot to put the cream on.

It had been tugging a lot since he’d left the Fire Nation and couldn’t spare the money for the cream, not when he needed it to feed his crew and run his boat. Not when he needed it for salves for his eye and the backs of his hands.

Uncle was careful with contact, making sure to only touch the hand that used to hold Lu Ten, to be sure he didn’t bring back the mark father had demanded he lose.

(When no one was looking, Zuko would unwrap his hand and watch wisps of steam on his thumb. It was always tinged with colour, just enough that he could guess what type of tea Uncle was brewing today. He told himself that was enough and he told himself that it was too much and he was wrong on both counts.)

With his mother’s cherry blossoms gone from his cheek, and Uncle and Lu Ten stripped from his hands, he only had one mark – the golden red flame where his eyebrow used to be. Even when it was a mess of pus and pale wet mulch not-skin the flame would flare and shrink with his father’s ire. It would not scar over.

Amid the sharp pain that hit harder whenever he moved wrong, he didn’t notice the pinpricks in his already painful calf that spiked whenever he yelled at his crew. When there were grumbles of mutiny he thought his leg had gone to sleep, worried that the lack of cream was causing some form of damage, but he didn’t make the connection even as he bit down on his anger and lowered his tone (at Uncle’s urgings, naturally).

***

Tu was born with four instruments on their arm, singing them lullabies in their crib. When they were old enough to join in, they were met with a joyful chorus that lasted all night. They would wonder sometimes about the damage – the burnt bodies of the luqin and ruan, the chips and slashes in the pipes – and try to guess at what they meant. None of the lyrics they sang ever suggested anything.

Then they met Frogfish, head still stinging and legs weak from running after their mother had… ( _after they had sparked and sparked and they were just like their father how dare they-)._ Frogfish offered them a salve she’d been using for her chin, a burn running from cheek to neck, and dabbed it to their forehead with a smile.

They didn’t tell her about the sparks, about why their mother had done it, but they did tell her about the singing in their arm.

And she showed them her arm and her ruan and they understood the damage. And it didn’t matter anymore because she was _here_.

So when they looked at him, slinking around the edges of their travelling performance - with the group they had found with Frogfish - and they saw the mark over his eye, they knew exactly who he was, even without seeing his arm.

He was singing, softly and slowly and too quietly for them to make out without placing their wrist to their ear. He was singing to a song they’d written together, years ago, and he knew every word.

***

The braziers that kept the dance floor lit were moving strangely. Zuko had checked a hundred times, he was sure, but there weren’t any other fire soldiers nearby, and he wasn’t holding onto the fire himself. Whoever was doing it was a novice, or maybe they hadn’t noticed what they were doing, because more than once he’d had to step in just to keep the fires in their place.

He wasn’t ready to watch them get out of control.

He startled and they flared when a voice appeared by his elbow, attached to a small child. They held his wrist with gentle-tight fingers and grinned as they chattered, dragging him gently over to the girl with the scar across her chin.

(She pointed to the downward slant of her mouth and asked him to call her Frogfish and struck up a debate on whether his eyebrow was technically a monobrow.

 _It wasn’t_ , he insisted. He forced down the corners of his mouth and inched the slightest bit closer as she giggled at his tone.)

They taught him to dance, clasping hands over wrists as they spun, moving with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.

They knew songs they shouldn’t. He didn’t let himself wonder about it.

He kept his wrist covered, and promised himself he would not return.

***

The crew, meanwhile, had made the connection the first time they had the mess hall to themselves, noting the marks, no bigger than a thumbnail, they all sported on their calves: the three-pointed spikes of a Prince’s crown, tarnished to bronze by his disgraced status.

He was supposed to treat them better than this, they knew, and they knew they could be loyal to the boy who would be Firelord if only he acknowledged that their crew was more than just the disgraced of the Fire Nation.

It wasn’t until the bandages came off and the sun hit harder and he bared his arms while sparring that they understood the strange specificity of the placement of his scars.

When they returned to the sweltering heat of the equator after the frosty north pole, and Zuko’s scars became a common enough sight that he didn’t care who saw them, so long as he could keep training for the day he would defeat the Avatar (poor kid, he wouldn’t let it go), they saw the strip around his ankle.

_***_

Zuko had a new luqin. He had a new luqin and empty pages of sheet music and marks on his wrist that weren’t supposed to be there.

There was a second firebender in town who begged him with sparks on their fingertips and a spring in their step and who listened with unblinking trust as he taught them; who would drag him back to the other three who carry the damage and instruments stamped across his wrist, whose voices sang him to sleep when his mother couldn’t.

 _One last time_ , he told himself, as they dragged him on stage.

***

The crew saw the strip around his ankle and they argued about it for all of a night and they told him.

And the ship began to run smoothly as he listened to their needs and understood their respective skills and where best to apply them. He did not play at music night, despite his apparent talent for the tsungi horn and luqin, but he would sometimes sit and join them.

Their meals were friendlier, their missions more successful (as much as spirit hunting can be successful), their injuries non-existent and their respect shared and reciprocated.

And Zuko had eleven coin-sized marks on the ribbon around his calf.

***

Zuko ached from dancing. His fingertips were numb from the strings and his voice was gone.

He had a headache from the sake and the firewhiskey and from little Tu’s heavy drumbeats and from the marks on his wrist that were _not supposed to be there._

The Wani made port and _Saving Face_ was performing and they promised a reunion show with all their members. Staring at the announcer was a prince who was not supposed to be there.

But there were gentle-tight hands around his wrists and smiles distorted by permanent frowns and nicknames that should have been insults but always came with a look that asked, _‘Is this okay?’_

There were songs long-buried and burned since the days with Piandao, and there was a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.

 _One last time_ , he told himself again, before he made the trip South.

***

The fleet was underwater.

Uncle was asleep and Zuko was not and his pink skin stung with the cold of the North Pole. His calf refused to relent no matter how much he rubbed it and he knew the issue had nothing to do with the _pink_.

Zhao had smirked at the disks of colour in the pink when they’d duelled. He hadn’t told Father and that should have been Zuko’s first clue.

Zhao had stolen his crew for a doomed siege and the fleet was underwater.

Zhao had seen them and-

They should have been pink. They would have been fine if they were pink.

He unwrapped his wrist.

 _One last time_ , he told himself again, the truth of it twisting his throat. He sang the first song to come to mind, quiet enough not to disturb Uncle. They buoyed his words immediately, each voice distinct. He allowed himself just those few minutes to appreciate Frogfish’s slight lisp, the squeak when Tu tried to hit a note too high.

When the last note had faded out and the chorus became silence he lit a flame on his fingertips, the way he’d seen father do so many times.

***

The saltwater surrounding them was cold and salty, stinging and numbing in equal measure. He left his wrist to drag and tried to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey warning for non-explicit self-burning (zuko burns off some soulmarks). minor character deaths. also the general implied child abuse stuff but if you made it through the first chapter you'll be fine here
> 
> anywhooooo - kudos comment subscribe 
> 
> (hello to my darling regulars how have you been i know its been a while)
> 
> i thought this chapter was gonna be longer and then it wasn't. oh well.
> 
> (yes tu is the same oc i made for Bards and Bonfires i love them very much)
> 
> Next Chapter: The Gaang
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://foiblepnoteworthy.tumblr.com/), wherein i do cursed art and talk about my writing when prompted

**Author's Note:**

> kudos comment subscribe to the fic subscribe to me  
> (and subscribe to all my other stuff while you're at it <3)
> 
> (hello my darling regulars im so sorry to do this to you again. How have you been?)  
> I forgot to mention this on my last update, but i changed my icon. Woo!
> 
> look out! it's me back on my bullshit. I've been really wanting to write this like ever since i finished unwanted friends (my other soulmate au, if you're new here). this fic, like that one, is inspired by The Family You Choose by TunaFishChris, but to a far lesser extent so i didn't link it (but you should defo go read it if you haven't already its the good shit)
> 
> I've not got an update schedule for this one, but i am hoping to update /something/ next week. I'm thinking of switching to a weekly randomly-update-one-fic type of schedule, so i never have to work on more than one thing at once and never have conflicting deadline with my work (tho i am trying to take a break from deadlines altogether at the mo) but we'll see. I'm hoping this sort of schedule would work out for everyone since i basically just write avatar so? if you're here then you want my other stuff.  
> you do. i promise.  
> (or maybe you don't and that's cool too but its there if you're bored)
> 
> i'd love to hear anything y'all have to say about this. i do read and try to reply to every comment, and though i do have a p solid plan for this, i will listen to what y'all have to say and try to incorporate it into what i write.  
> sometimes i accidentally hint at something interesting without realising it and if you wanna see it happen i need to know its there so. hmu basically and you'll probs influence what you see.
> 
> (this so far has happened on Bards and Bonfires, wherein i hinted towards a reveal and y'all spotted it and i went well fuck now something interesting actually has to happen. also happened in Unwanted Friends, where y'all really wanted sokka's pov and it got like 3 chapters longer and i started crying yes im blaming you and not my own lack of self restraint)
> 
> here is my Tumblr, i illustrate my writing and draw cursed things. come pester me there: https://foiblepnoteworthy.tumblr.com/


End file.
